


Stuck Still No Turning Back

by the_fluff_awakens



Series: The Dog Days [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Frank doesn't understand jealousy, Frank is a giant flirt but he doesn't even know it, Frank is a protective grump, Frank/Karen, Gratuitous sleep snuggling, Karen/frank - Freeform, kastle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_fluff_awakens/pseuds/the_fluff_awakens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having completely cut off his ties to humanity and fearing what he could become, Frank Castle turns to the one person he still feels a connection to—Karen Page. What follows is the story of how a man who previously thought himself dead finds, not a home, that is not quite the word he'd use, but a solid place on which to stand. And perhaps, maybe, start to build again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck Still No Turning Back

**Author's Note:**

> So you know when I said that story I wrote from Karen's POV was a one shot? Well, it still is. Except now, Frank wants a word in edgewise, too. I didn't realize how much longer this is than the previous story. Who'd have thought Frank had a lot more to say than Karen? I recently rewatched the second season and Frank just would not shut up. So, my fingers slipped and this happened.

Six months have passed since he'd first found himself sleeping on Karen Page's tiny sofa. Six months since he'd tapped on her window, hoping she'd let him in and out of the goddamned New York City cold, while fully expecting her to take her .380 and shooting him right in the face. Six months since she'd told him he would be dead to her if he killed the man who'd been responsible for his family's murder. Six months since he'd told her he was already dead.

Frank had known it was a bad idea to pull her back into his shit. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd pushed her away, slamming doors on her face, convincing her she should hold on to Murdock, and flat out telling her to stay away from him. But after he'd blown up his house, along with the pictures and the toys and the memories of his wife and kids, it had felt like blowing up a part of himself. He'd holed up in an abandoned building for a few days, surrounded by his new stash of guns and ammo and the never-ending chatter from the police scanner, before he'd fully understood what he'd just done. He had just completely cut off his ties to humanity.

He never had any romantic notions when it came to his actions, he had never thought of himself as a hero the way some of New York's citizens did. He was nothing like Red, with his ideals and his creed. He was a killer, plain and simple. But he had been a killer fueled by his humanity, if that made any sense (and he was aware it probably only made sense to himself). He had lost his family, and his very human emotions had fought tooth and nail to make the sons of bitches who had been responsible pay for it. And yet, after all had been said and done, Blacksmith dead by his hand, something inside him still twitched, still inched towards that trigger, still got excited at the sight of all those weapons he'd found in that shed.

So what he had previously thought— _feared_ —had come to pass. He had been changed, no longer motivated by vengeance but by a simple need to kill. Bad men— _evil men_ , he would often remind himself, because that was important—but still, there was now a hole in him where his connection with humanity had once been.

So, perhaps without meaning to, he had found himself outside Karen's, like an old dog stubbornly refusing to be taken away from its owners. Because she had been _it_ , the last remaining thread he'd hoped he hadn't completely pulled from his humanity. And when she'd opened that window for him without saying a word? _Shit, man!_ It felt like being forgiven.

So now, after yet another night of snuffing out drug dealers and murderers, Frank stood by the bed, _Karen's bed_ , while she slept soundlessly, toeing his boots off and removing his vest. He never planned for this to happen, he was content just sleeping on her tiny couch, no matter how many cricks formed in his joints. But one night, he'd come home after having his ass handed to him by Red, and Karen wouldn't let him sleep on the couch. Said it would make his injuries worse. And it had made sense, of course. But weeks had passed, and he'd gotten better, had eventually started going out again to deal with bad guys, and still he and Karen slept side by side. No discussion necessary, just a fact accepted—Frank Castle shared a bed with Karen Page.

After taking off his shirt, he settled on top of the covers with his pants still on. That was another undiscussed agreement, that he would sleep in his pants. It meant not being fully comfortable, especially for someone like him whose body always ran hot, but he was always so tired anyway, it wasn't hard to fall asleep.

Almost as soon as his weight shifted the bed, Karen turned towards him and draped a long pale arm over his chest. Something he'd learned from this bed-sharing deal—Karen Page liked to snuggle. It didn't become apparent at first. She used to sleep on the left side of the bed, curled around a pillow, back to him, while he lay on his back on top of the covers. It was about a week later when she'd mumbled grumpily in her sleep, then had turned around and inched closer to him, resting her forehead against his shoulder. He'd started initially at the touch, he hadn't been touched like that in a long time, but her cool skin was so soothing, he had eventually relaxed and had fallen asleep.

Now, Frank stared up at the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly skimming across Karen's arm, realizing just how _familiar_ she feels. Nothing felt out of place around her—not their toothbrushes sitting side by side by the sink, not waking up to a freshly brewed pot of coffee she'd just made, not lying next to her, his warm fingers touching her cold arm, and falling asleep to the sound of her even breathing.

Somehow, without meaning to, he let Karen Page burrow under his skin, and settle there contentedly.  


* * *

  
"Can I ask you something?" he asked one morning, as he stepped out of the bathroom in his boxer shorts. He used the towel draped over his shoulders to dry his hair.

"Hmm?" Karen mumbled, looking up from the small table behind the sofa where they sometimes ate their meals. She had a bunch of files and newspaper clippings in front of her, a mug of coffee in her hand.

Frank didn't miss the way she looked down at his chest, nor the all-too-familiar pink flush that bloomed from her neck up to her face as she knitted her eyebrows together and peered down at her mug, suddenly very interested in its contents. He probably should not find this endearing, the way she so easily blushed like that, but there weren't many things that seemed to faze Karen. It was a reminder that he lived with an actual human being and not something he'd conjured up in his unstable head.

"Why are you okay with what I do?" He walked to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, then took Karen's and refilled it.

"Who says I am?" she asked, watching him take the seat opposite hers. "I am by no means okay with what you do."

"So then why aren't you turning me in to the cops?"

"Haven't we been through this?"

"Oh, right," he nodded, before gulping down his hot coffee. "You believe me, I never lie to you, yeah. Yeah, yeah. You know I kill people, right? I'm not like Red, I don't leave them for the cops to find. I leave them for the M.E. to examine."

"Jesus," Karen muttered, shaking her head and shuffling her papers. "What do you want from me, Frank? What do you want to hear? That I think your way works better than The Devil's? That I think some people are so dangerous, so evil, so unrepentant, that incarceration will do nothing? Is that what you want? For me to acknowledge that we are no different, no matter what I tell myself? That sometimes I read about things, that I see things, and I get so mad that I think about taking my gun and shooting the people responsible myself?"

"Whoa," Frank whispered, his eyes widening infinitesimally in surprise. "I had no idea your head could even handle thoughts like that."

"Well, thank you for making me say them out loud. I now hate myself a little more."

"You know thinking is not the same as doing, yeah?" he asked, now wanting to take everything back. He didn't like the way Karen looked, like she had just seen a side of herself she genuinely hated.

"Isn't it?"

Frank watched her drink her coffee, raise a piece of paper and read it, effectively ending their conversation.  


* * *

  
The call came on the scanner the night Karen was working late, telling Frank earlier that day not to worry if she didn't come home because she had a deadline coming up. A 240 near the New York Bulletin. Frank was out of the window before the call even ended.

By the time he got there, the police had already arrived, and he could only watch from a nearby rooftop as Karen talked to a police officer. She seemed shaken, but otherwise okay, as she gestured with one hand, the other clutching the blanket around her shoulders.

He followed them to the police station on foot, which wasn't the easiest thing to do when you're toting a sniper rifle along as you jumped through rooftops. He waited several hours, pacing anxiously, until Karen was escorted by two policemen to a car. Again, he followed them on foot, knowing they were taking her home.

When Karen walked through the door, Frank was climbing in through the window. He placed his rifle on the bed before standing next to Karen by the kitchen sink.

"What happened?" he asked, watching her reach for the bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge.

"I was walking to my car when this guy just came out of nowhere and tried to make off with my purse," she answered after taking a drink.

"Tried?" he asked, reaching for the bottle. He took a long drink as he waited for her to answer.

"Well, I do carry mace," she answered. "But he managed to hit me before I sprayed him."

It was then that Frank took a good look at her, noticing the split lip and the rapidly forming bruise on her cheekbone. Without thinking about it, he reached out and stroked her cheek, causing her to flinch.

"He ran after I sprayed him," she finished, taking the bottle from him again. 

He grunted, dropping his hand and clenching it into a fist. His eyes landed on the rifle on the bed.

"How'd you know, anyway? Were you there?"

"Do you think he could have gotten anywhere near you if I'd been there?"

Karen chuckled, drawing his attention away from the rifle.

"What are you going to do, Frank? Shoot down every would-be mugger in New York City? That's a little extreme, even for you."

He scoffed, because she had a point.

"Let's get that lip cleaned, yeah?" he said instead, pushing away from the counter to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

"Aren't you going out tonight?" Karen asked when he returned with the kit and set it down on the kitchen counter.

"Nah," he answered, pouring antiseptic on a cotton ball. "The bad guys can wait."

The following day, Karen went back to work like nothing happened. Frank didn't push it, knowing she'd been through worse, and just quietly watched from the bed as she covered up the bruise on her cheek with make up. He went back to sleep as soon as she left.  


* * *

  
The building across the street from the laundromat in Chinatown had one of the filthiest rooftops he'd ever seen. It was littered with cigarette butts and take out boxes and broken bottles. It wasn't hard to picture a bunch of teenagers hanging out up there, rowdy and obnoxious, shouting down obscenities at the people below. It was something Frank Jr. could have done—stayed out late with questionable friends, making Maria worry and driving Frank up the wall—had he been allowed to.

Frank grunted under his breath, finger tapping against the trigger of his rifle.

Movement below caught his eye, and he watched as two Asian guys exited the cleaner's. Each one held several black garment bags over their shoulders, looking around them as they approached a blue van parked in front of the building. One guy opened the side panel before they hung the bags on what Frank could only assume were hooks attached to the van's ceiling.

"Huh," he muttered, watching the guys get in the front and start the van. "Late night dry cleaning delivery."

He was just about to sling his rifle over his shoulder to follow the van when a car crawled out of its parking spot a few buildings down, its headlights turned off. Furrowing his brow, he trained his rifle on the driver, peering into its scope and cursed under his breath.

What the hell was Karen doing following these guys?

He managed to follow them to a small arcade, the kind that had those old video games in big cabinets Lisa used to love ( _Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Black Tiger_ ). It was closed like most of the shops on that street, but when the guys unloaded the bags from the van and tapped on the glass door, it was opened by a small figure wearing a baseball cap—Frank couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman—who proceeded to usher the men inside.

Karen's car had parked down the block, and now Frank saw her get out of it and approach the arcade, shoulders hunched, eyes darting everywhere. 

"Don't do it," he muttered.

He could only watch as she crouched low, inching closer and closer to the arcade's window, his finger ready on the rifle's trigger in case somebody caught her lurking about.

"Goddamnit, Karen."

It happened quickly, much too quickly than he'd care to admit, his focus hampered by the distraction of Karen sneaking around where she didn't belong. One second she was there, the next she was gone. He swept the street with his rifle, looking through his scope for any sign of movement. Finding nothing, he swung the rifle over his shoulder and headed for the fire escape, cursing under his breath. At the very least he was sure none of the arcade's entry points had opened.

It was in a cramped alley near where she'd parked her car that he heard her, having a heated argument with someone, something about leads and her job being to follow them. Taking his rifle in hand, he jogged down quietly, ready to shoot the son of a bitch who took her. What he saw when he got there stopped him short. Karen was looking at him from down the alley, as if she knew he was coming. Her face was red, but not the same kind of red it turned whenever Frank walked shirtless around the apartment. It was the angry kind of red, her eyebrows drawn together, her breathing labored, fists clenched at her sides.

Standing in front of her, back turned away from the alley's entrance, was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

"Get away from her, Red," Frank ordered, walking forward, his rifle trained at the Devil's back, though his finger no longer rested on the trigger. No matter their differences, Frank knew Red wouldn't harm someone like Karen. Not even if he found out that she'd been harboring a supposedly-dead fugitive.

"Jesus," Karen muttered, hand coming up to cup her forehead and turning away from the Devil. "Frank, what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" he challenged, now only a few steps away from them. "What are _you_ doing here?" 

"Are you following me?" she asked incredulously.

Frank noted that Red still hadn't said anything, still hadn't even looked at him.

"No, I'm following the same Chinese drug dealers you are. It's what I do."

"Damn it, would you two just let me do my job?" Karen hissed, glaring eyes darting between the two men. "Seriously, there's too many vigilantes in my life."

And that was when it clicked. Frank had always sort of suspected it, but never seriously considered it. The slow, clear way they talked, how and why Red fought the way he did, how and why Murdock seemed to know things despite his disability.

He rested his rifle over his shoulder, eyes now studying the Devil closely—the width of his shoulders, the way he stood, face turned just slightly to the side as if watching Frank from the corner of his eye. And then he watched as Red turned to Karen, saw the way Karen looked back at him, saw her ease and familiarity. It was all there. It took Frank seeing them together for him to really think about Red's identity. It never mattered to him much before.

Red was Murdock. Murdock was Red.

Karen opened her mouth to say something when Red's shoulders tensed, torso now turning to face Frank. Then Frank heard the unmistakable sound of car doors opening and slamming shut. In less than a second, he was standing next to Karen, shielding her with his body, his left arm pushing her against the brick wall and stepping into the shadows. They watched the van drive by the alley, before Frank registered Red standing in front of Karen as well. Between him and Frank, there was no way anyone standing in that alley would know that Karen was even there.

Unless, of course, she started pushing them out of her way in a huff. Which she did.

"Damn it!"

She ran to the end of the alley, then slowed down before peering from the side of the brick wall. Frank assumed the street was empty, because she threw her arms up and turned back around.

"You assholes," she hissed.

Frank turned to look at Red, to ask, _Can you believe her?_ , but he wasn't there anymore.  


* * *

  
Hours later, Frank quietly ducked into Karen's apartment through the window, eyes trained on the sleeping figure on the bed. He rested the rifle on the sill and walked to the bathroom. After brushing his teeth and washing the sweat and dirt from his face, he walked out and looked down at Karen's face, softly lit by the bathroom's light. He scowled quickly to remove the soft smile that always formed on his face whenever he was around her.

He turned off the light and walked to his side of the bed, toeing his boots off, removing his vest as quietly as he could and tossing his shirt and socks into the hamper by the foot of the bed. Karen grumbled in her sleep when his weight shifted her closer to him, but she didn't turn around.

So Frank pulled her even closer, tugging on her shoulder until she turned around and draped her arm over his chest.

He was feeling extra hot tonight, and her skin cooled him off so easily. At least, that's what he told himself as he drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if there's more from this world that needs to be put out. There's another voice vying for my attention, but it's just not as loud. I have other stories I need to write, so if I do decide to add more to this, it won't be for some time. We shall see.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://the-fluff-awakens.tumblr.com/).


End file.
